Auntie Kani
- 6 hours ago
- 4 min read
Theologian Henri Nouwen has said: “In this world we have become so accustomed to creating a division between ‘us’ and ‘them’ that we often fail to see that ‘they’ are also ‘us.’”
Auntie Kani is a fixture; she is like a well-worn piece of our furniture.
Much loved and totally at home. She visits the Medical Clinic every day
more for social connection than anything else, then drops into the office to
chat and then to the kitchen for hot milk, and the garden for veggies.
Auntie Kani always walks, rain or shine; she walks both to give her something to do and also in the hope that perchance she will uncover the tiniest piece of information regarding her son Adel, who is still in captivity in Syria (to the best of her knowledge).
Yesterday, whilst being treated to a calming footbath in the Hope Medical Clinic, she shared her story with Nurse Fawzi, a story which is deeply embedded in her memory and will never be uprooted or fade away.
She and her 12-year-old son Adel were pulled from her beds (mattresses) on August 3rd, when in the early morning hours ISXX swept into their village.
Just two nights previously Adel told his mum that he had seen a disturbing dream. In his dream, men in black came and separated between them, taking her away and leaving him alone in their hands.
Mum Kani reassured him, saying that it was only a dream, and that she would never allow anyone to separate between them. Out of both fear and of love for her son, she tied his hand tightly to the edge of her dress so that they would not be separated.
In the early hours of the following morning a convoy of ISXX buses arrived carrying masked and armed men who began separating the older people, the majority of whom were sent to instantaneous death. When they came to her, they noticed that Adel was tied to her dress. One of the men took a large knife and cut through her dress in order to separate them. They forced her at gunpoint onto the bus. Being who she is, many times she tried to get off, but each time found herself opposite a machine gun and was prevented.
She told me that the scene has never left her mind and she replays it every day, asking herself what more could she have done to save her son. She does not know whether Adel is alive or dead but prays for him every day, and that he will return to her arms. She is sad that she has no photos of him; her phone was taken on the day of captivity and her home was razed to dust. Memories remain in her heart.
She often comes to the Hope Centre in the mornings. I always greet her with a smile and warm welcome. Sometimes she comes to talk for a few minutes; I always stop what I am doing and give her time, five minutes, fifteen, whatever she needs. I listen to her. Listening to her share her heart is important because it helps her feel safe and peaceful. She knows that she is with family who love and care for her.
Sometimes she visits for a cup of hot tea or milk (which she cannot afford to buy). On cold mornings I send her to the clinic while I prepare hot lentil soup with fresh-baked bread for her. In the summer when the fruits are ready I will make her a plate of fruit. After her clinic session we escort her to the Hope Garden where she picks whatever vegetables she needs.
Ask Auntie Kani what Springs of Hope is for her. Her reply will be that it's her home. We are her family. It's her place of comfort and hope.
"I live in a tent in Shariya Camp with Auntie Kani as my neighbour. She is a beautiful lady, kind, respectful, gentle and always happy to see us. We take as much care of her as we can as she is alone. Her greatest fear is that she will die in the night without anyone knowing."
— Amal, the House Mother.
Dear reader, dear friend, you might find yourself wondering why you are hearing about our Auntie, or broccoli, or the sewing ladies. My reply is Isaiah 61.
The scripture is clear but not fully translated from the original into English.
He gives beauty from underneath the mourning, the oil of joy from underneath the sadness, the garment of praise from underneath the heaviness.
All that we see, all that we share by way of invitation into our world has come by standing in the ashes, by going down into the place of death with the knowledge that we cannot serve up beauty “instead” of mourning but by being obedient to the word; this sovereign transformation is promised.
Hence we stand, low, unseen in the darkest of places, and watch him work.
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